


be something you love and understand

by DarchangelSkye



Category: American Idol RPF, Music RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Bartenders, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Mild Language, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, lounge singer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:30:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7175711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarchangelSkye/pseuds/DarchangelSkye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Trent had a sneaking suspicion the kid working behind the bar was a kid in the most literal sense of the word. Enough of the signs were there- soft face, casual gait, the rotating supply of ripped jeans and T-shirts advertising bands he hadn't heard of and wouldn't be likely to twist their songs around in his act.</i><br/>Or, the one where I take that one Ford segment seriously and Trent is a lounge singer. God help us all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	be something you love and understand

**Author's Note:**

> [stupid Ford segment, givin' me ideas an' shit :p](http://stephaniemccomb.tumblr.com/post/141844470111/fashion-intro-in-case-u-missed-it)  
>  Title knicked from "A Simple Man" since they both like that song and I needed a title.

Trent had a sneaking suspicion the kid working behind the bar was a kid in the most literal sense of the word. Enough of the signs were there- soft face, casual gait, the rotating supply of ripped jeans and T-shirts advertising bands he hadn't heard of and wouldn't be likely to twist their songs around in his act. But the most telling sign was when Borchetta during the interview looked at what had to be his ID and did that eyebrow raise of his when he didn't believe something.

(All of this going on off to the side while Trent was supposedly minding his own business at the piano and working out that night's setlist. But it had become a force of habit to observe everyone who came in.)

"So why exactly should I let you in here?"

The kid shrugged. "You need a bartender and I need a job."

That must have been good enough for Borchetta's standards, because that night the kid- Dalton- was pouring drinks and chatting up patrons like an old pro and occasionally nodding and grinning in rhythm to the music.

(Most likely to be polite, but Trent didn't mind. Some nights a nod was as good as not getting anything thrown at him by a more irate customer.)

Even if they weren't drunk off their asses to notice however, some people would probably be fooled into thinking Dalton was legal if they looked long enough at his eyes. Those were the eyes of what his daddy called an old soul, somebody who'd seen a lot and carried a burden.

What kind of burden he held that resulted in him thinking a run-down bar was the best option, Trent didn't want to think about. But at least it was better than the young people he'd seen on the street who decided that stealing out of dumpsters and selling their bodies to survive was better than whatever was at home.

***

Dalton had been working for a month or so, and he and Trent had hardly exchanged more than the standard heys and good-nights at the beginning and end of each shift. That seemed to be the way with everybody around here, keep to yourself and nobody gets hurt or feels awkward. Camaraderie with your co-workers was for the nicer part of town.

Which was why it was a bit of a surprise one evening when Trent came into the bar, sheet music and shiny jackets under one arm, to see the kid perched on a bar stool while eating one of those huge sandwiches from the deli down the block (another thing everybody working here learned early, get your food from elsewhere).

"You're early." Hello Mr. Obvious, but Trent tended to resort to that when he was surprised.

"I had to get out." Dalton tore a bite from his sandwich like he hadn't eaten in days and took a long swig from a bottled drink.

Never stopped being full of mysteries. "You don't mind if I tune the keys a little?"

"Nah," Dalton waved a friendly if dismissive hand and went back to eating.

Trent sighed and shut his eyes for a moment as he usually did when his fingers first touched the keys. Even if the piano wasn't personally his, he'd been playing long enough that he knew every sound under his touch and a part of his soul was bound right into it.

Any normal person would think afterwards how much they'd miss it when they inevitably moved on, but he wasn't thinking inevitables yet.

Soon he slowly began to play, keeping an eye on the sheet music as the gentle melody flowed. It was close to June and the wedding season, that and Valentine's were the two times of the year he felt he could get away with unapologetically schmaltzy tunes in the set list, and this _Phantom_ song had long been one of his favorites. Occasionally Trent would repeat a bar to test something out, whether he could play it slower or strip it to the bare minimum of notes or if it would still be recognizable in a different key. His ability to do that was what got him hired in the first place and on the days he was just able to eke out enough rent, he was grateful.

_"Share each day with me, each night, each morning..."_

OK, Trent had heard plenty of things during his time here, but he knew he wasn't the one singing right now as that voice was rather low... Eyes left the sheet music long enough to see Dalton's head bowed, lips moving, and eyes slightly shut as if lost in some memory. His tone was husky with the slightest inflection and- well, not bad. In fact, more than not bad, more like pretty dang good.

Trent didn't even notice his fingers had dropped away from the keys until the kid stopped singing and looked up.

"Um-" Talk about being a deer in the headlights. Apparently if you wanted to know he really was young, just get him to somehow reveal something about himself and watch the eyes go buggy. Regular ol' fear didn't do that, as the times he'd had to calm down customers who'd been cut off before the bouncer finally escorted them out showed.

"Shit, sorry." Red blossomed on his face and fingers tangled over the sandwich's plastic wrapping. Before Trent could say it was okay, Dalton went on, "I just...really like songs like that."

"No kidding?" Trent let the question hang in the air. Something inside was itching for this to turn into a normal conversation, for the kid to say something like _I was in Drama Club_ or _That was my parents' wedding song,_ anything to break past the guarded exterior.

But Dalton only slid off the stool with an "I'll see you later," and hurried out.

"Hey, I-" But he'd already dashed out before he could hear a word.

Trent stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, then laid a hand back on the keys with a light but discordant sound.

Getting back to practicing was a little difficult after that.

***

Fortunately, Dalton ended up showing for his shift later. Trent breathed a sigh of relief when the kid breezed in, even if he appeared to be making a show of not looking at anybody else. The awkward bugginess of his eyes earlier was replaced by the familiar cold and guarded shield. Dalton was silently saying, _Anything you saw before was a weak mistake_.

That was probably the best route to take, but as Trent had demonstrated he couldn't always do that. Call it the performers' need to connect with the audience.

About three songs into the setlist, he could tell the crowd was not in a romantic mood and quickly switched to his usual standards. Oh well, like with everything else, he tried. It was nights like this he harbored thoughts of veering into something wildly original to wake up the more placid patrons, but original stuff wasn't why he'd been hired. That kind of originality wasn't valued anymore.

From there on the evening appeared to go as normal, until Trent heard the startings of a commotion off to the side. He carefully shifted his gaze to see a customer standing in front of the bar, leaning forward with palms on the counter while Dalton was apparently trying to talk some sense into him. Trent had seen him around before, a heavy drinker with the telltale red lines crisscrossing over his wide nose, that and the having a hard time keeping his temper down.

"Sir, we've told you this before, we can't open a new tab until you pay off the other one-"

"You think I'm lettin' a little punk try an' cut me off?" The guy was straightening his arms and curling his fingers into fists-

The next moments would come back to Trent later in flashes like comic book panels. He'd remember the guy pulling back his arm ready to throw a punch, Dalton backing up within the confines of the bar space and paling in pure fear, himself going "Hey!" and leaping away from the stage while the rest of the small band kept playing, and being pretty damn close to flinging himself onto the bar to block the punch. As it was, he bumped his side rather forcefully on the wood while reaching to grab the guy's wrist, but the pain barely registered. What did register was the cold sweat on his face as he saw the guy's boiling red eyes and was squeezing his grip tightly to keep that fist from moving another inch.

"T..." Dalton's voice was fearful behind him.

Some other customers exclaimed in surprise at the spectacle, which was enough to get Borchetta out of his office. "What the hell?-"

Trent brought the guy's fist down with a huff sound as the bouncer finally came over to drag him out. When he turned to face Dalton, he could see practically all the blood drained from the kid's face.

"Ah, jesus, you're not okay. Look, you two take twenty, I'll man the bar."

"Okaythanks," Dalton said in one breath and sprinted for the exit before Borchetta could ask or offer anything else.

Trent glanced to the stage. Yeah, they were doing just fine without him. His energy suddenly drained by the confrontation, he sighed and followed Dalton outside.

Even with it nearing summer the temperature still dropped at night, meaning the kid had his arms wrapped around himself as he stood outside the doorway where the smell of stale cigarette smoke lingered in the air. Not that Trent was any better off in his flimsy jacket. Couldn't exactly offer it like a gentleman.

Dalton heaved a deep sigh and palmed over his face. "Oh god...ohhh god," was muffled behind his hands.

Trent stood awkward in his spot for a moment. Like, he couldn't exactly put a hand on the kid's shoulder, could he? "Hey, man, it's OK," he figured was the safest to say. "Dude's not coming back anytime soon."

Another sigh and Dalton turned his palms towards each other, and with his eyes closed he looked like he was praying.

"I...just...this has not..." trailed off in the softest tone of voice Trent had ever heard from him. _Has not been one of my days_ he could only venture was the rest of that sentence.

Trent leaned against the brick wall and slipped his hands into his pockets, about the only thing he could warm up right now. "You need to, like, talk about it?" Immediately he wanted to kick himself for that. Dalton had run away when being open presented itself before, it was gonna happen again-

But instead the kid shrugged and rubbed an eye, smudging some of the shadow the female customers liked seeing on him. "I was really being a bitch earlier. I shouldn't've bolted like that," he muttered.

Trent looked to the ground for a moment and kicked some loose gravel, even if it scuffed the toes of his best shoes. "I was bein' nosy. That's not yer fault." Just drape the awkwardness with a coat of _whatever._

Dalton breathed into his hands and held to his upper arms. "When I said I had to get out..."

Trent stayed silent, watching the kid's expression. He was still pale, the roots of his hair and shadow on his eyes standing out like ink on paper. He stared into some unknown distance as he talked. 

"The place I'm staying...some girl's ex phoned in a firebomb threat so we all had to evacuate, and I just barely had time to grab my money and bar kit, like I _need_ that..." Another heavy sigh and he ran a hand over his hair while Trent blinked in...well, some sort of surprise.

"Jesus," he whispered. That right there told a whole lot about Dalton while _still_ leaving so much a mystery.

"Not the first time we've had to haul ass. Closest call, though." Dalton turned his head to make a little eye contact with Trent, the color pale but somehow murky. "But that was the first time in weeks I was thinking about home, where I didn't have to worry about paying rent or sneaking out at night, I could just play all my old records in my room and be happy..."

Trent felt a small and sad smile on his lips. "Lemme guess, the _Phantom_ album was one of 'em?" Even though Dalton's faded shirt was currently advertising Darby Clash, whoever the heck that was, and a trio of chains hung from his belt loops and checkered sneakers scuffed the ground, there was really a soft and dramatic side under the punk exterior. Trent could just vaguely picture the kid's room as a comfortable mess like any other bedroom, the walls a mix of band and show posters, and maybe his record player being the kind with headphones so late at night he could relax and drift off into the melodies. Sounded like bliss.

And made Trent think there had to be something more dire than just a disagreement with his folks for him to be away from home.

Dalton nodded meekly. "Kinda caught me off guard...and when that guy was ready to hit me all I could think was, this is it, he's too tough for me, this just shows I'm only a mewling brat that can't make it on my own-" His voice cracked and he bit his bottom lip with the apparent effort of staving off tears. He may've already been more open in front of Trent than he had in his time here, but he wasn't about to cry.

Trent said nothing, giving the kid the time he needed to put himself back together.

Well, maybe not _exactly_ a kid, given what he'd just heard. Having to make your own way in the harsh part of an already rough around the edges town, where even the place you were calling home couldn't always be safe, could harden and age someone pretty quickly. A few of his own first nights here Trent was awakened by clatters loud and sharp as shotgun blasts- hell, maybe some of them _were_ blasts- and sleep after that was fitful and vigilant with a racing pulse.

And yet, he didn't feel completely hardened over by his experiences. Being behind a microphone or keyboard was being wrapped in a safe blanket of music, especially around his heart. And if even one person was touched in a way like he was, his efforts didn't feel like a waste and he could keep his gentle humanity and stay a little bit young.

And it looked like one of those people was standing beside him right now. Dalton's reactions hadn't been just out of being polite after all. Good memories were tied to the music he heard and that was possibly a saving grace during the harsher nights.

"Sounds more like a survivor than a brat to me," Trent smiled a little and hoped it wasn't seen as threatening. Fortunately Dalton smiled back and breathed into his hands again. For a brief moment he looked like all troubles were forgotten, just like when he smiled along to the music.

"How about you? What's the great T Vegas doing in a place like this sounding like that?" His smirk was the one of knowing Trent was obviously hiding under a name even though, unlike Dalton, he wasn't really hiding from anything. It was just a new name for a new life. 

If Trent had a nickel for every time he'd asked himself similar questions even when he already knew the answer. He shook his head. "Well, when you've taken another path than what's expected of you...y'gotta support yourself somehow." So many memories of arguments and slammed doors...

Dalton seemed to let that sink in for a quiet moment. "Guess we're not that different, huh?" he eventually raked a hand over his hair and Trent could finally see a little color coming back into his face. No, not drastically different. Survival had a way of making the same on the inside.

Dalton slumped slightly in his stance- he was really just about as tall as Trent, something else that made him look older- and let out a low breath. His relaxed posture had the two leaning shoulder-to-shoulder together, but that wasn't anything to freak out over. Even with trying to make it by yourself, you had to find support _sometime_. If that support was someone in a similar boat as you, best to grab on before you sunk.

Car radios and swells of conversation occasionally zoomed by the alleyway, paying no mind to the young men standing in silent camaraderie. The sky above them dipped to a slightly darker blue. No stars, too much city smoke for that. Trent wondered if Dalton also missed the stars at home and if that was a story for another day.

He took a hand from his pocket to put a casual arm around the kid's shoulder, something nit flinched at. An unspoken understanding had settled between them that didn't feel so awkward anymore, just the need to reach out and grab what was good. 


End file.
